Into the Wild
by peredhil lover
Summary: When young Aragorn survives an unspeakable trauma, he and his family must find a way to heal, and not only from new wounds, but also from those that have long been left to fester. Aragorn, Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir. Very dark, disturbing, adult content.
1. Prologue: The Evil to Come

**A very strong warning: this story will contain disturbing, adult content. There will be absolutely nothing graphic depicted, but it will be extremely dark in places, and some may find it quite upsetting. I will make more detailed warnings as I feel the chapters warrant it. I also want to stress, though, that as dark as this may get, I do see it ultimately as an uplifting story of redemption and renewal and of the strength of the human spirit, and I hope that those who are able to stick with it will find it rewarding in the end.**

**This begins later in the same day that "A Yearling Shoot" ends. I would recommend reading that story first before you begin this one, though it isn't absolutely necessary. I'm using a somewhat unusual style here, but I assure you, the rest of the story will be written as a more traditional narrative. **

**The sections of text taken directly from a conversation between Elrond and Aragorn in **_**Appendix A: Here Follows a Part of the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen**_** are in italics. **

Prologue: The Evil to Come

I am weary. What is the hour? Darkness descends now, but it was morning still when first I called Estel into my chamber and confronted him, my foster son, about his feelings for my daughter. Have I truly dwelt here lost in my thoughts for all the day?

Estel, you foolish boy! _Your own eyes have betrayed you...._ How could you not know that I would read you as easily as words upon an open page? _But...she is of a lineage greater than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers...._ How do you dare, Isildur's last heir, descendant of an all but fallen mortal line, deem yourself worthy even to dream of her favour? _She is too far above you._

_And so, I think, it may well seem to her...._ Surely, I have spoken true! For Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar, and the fairest of our people still to walk upon these lands, to turn her eye to a mere mortal youth, no matter whom he may claim as his forefathers: even to consider it is madness! And yet, Estel, what fear is it that made my words to you so harsh today? _You do not know yet what you desire of me.... _

_But there will be no choice before Arwen, my beloved, unless you, Aragorn, Arathorn's son, come between us and bring one of us, you or me, to a bitter parting beyond the end of the world...._ And what a grievous parting would it be! If it came to that, my only daughter, would you turn from the land of your people, from eternal bliss in the Blessed Realm? Would you abandon me, and your mother, for a mere few years of fleeting happiness in the world of men? Oh, Celebrían, how I long for your wisdom and your counsel in this matter!

The clouds are growing thick now, and the air is heavy with the promise of rain. It rained on that night too, my beloved wife, the night you were brought home to me a mere shadow of what you were. Tormented without mercy at the hands of those foul beasts, those servants of evil, you suffered such unspeakable acts of base depravity I cannot even now bring myself to think upon it. But still, I remember how you writhed on the bed and pulled away from my softest touch, shivering in terror as I fought to heal you. How you begged for death to set you free! I remember in the darkness of each long night that followed how you awoke screaming in terror, still locked in a horrible nightmare from which you could find no escape. I could bring you no comfort, I could not reach you. You were lost to me.

I no longer recognized you, my love. They had consumed you and left behind naught but a battered and broken shell, thin and hollow. You seldom spoke, but when you did, your voice was flat, devoid of all emotion, and though you could not bear to look at me for more than the briefest of moments, those fleeting glances were enough to reveal that the light no longer shone behind your eyes; all that remained was a cold and dark void, an emptiness which frightened me above all else. You were fading, and I knew you had to leave us to save your very life. Much to my shame, I had failed you. Never again will your melodic laughter fill the rooms of this house, nor your smile brighten these now dreary halls.

But why do I dwell on that this evening? Surely, Celebrían, you are now healed and whole, and waiting, safe and content, in Aman, until the day we all are reunited, far from this darkness and despair. Far from this evil.

_The years will bring what they will. We will speak no more of this until many have passed.... _Estel, my son, I grew to love you as my own, and always you were such a good boy: strong and brave, courteous, honourable, and humble. Born a leader. And though you knew it not, in you I saw again the promise of a line of Kings unbroken, of a grand and noble race undiminished. Not for many generations have any mortal descendants of Elros so reminded me of him, my own brother. _Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Lord of the Dúnedain, listen to me! A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin... _We all have placed much hope in you, Estel, and you will carry a great burden.

_Many years of trial lie before you..._this much I know, and it fills me with sorrow. Again and again you shall be put to the test, and your trials, I fear, will be most harsh. But you must rise above it all, my son, or you will fall. And all of Middle Earth could fall as well with you.

_The days darken, and much evil is to come..._ _much evil is to come..._ I can feel that sudden chill again, that tingling down my spine that warns me of the coming of a vision. But what do I see now—a portent of the future or a horror of the past? No! Stop this--I cannot bear it! Not Celebrían brought low again by foul creatures that torment her with vulgar words and vile acts! No...but wait--it is not my wife I see, it is Estel! Where is my son? Something is wrong...

"Elrond! What is the matter?"

Before I might answer I struggle to regain my breath, which I find has been robbed from me: "Glorfindel, where is Estel?"

"I do not know. I have not seen him since this morning, and he did not report for his watch this evening. This I came to report to you when I heard you call out. Forgive me for not knocking."

I must steady myself against the railing of the balcony to stop from collapsing. "Tell me --that band of men that set up camp just outside the borders of our woods last eve, do they remain there still?

"Yes, when last my scouts reported to me an hour or so ago, and judging from their jovial mood, they have no plans to leave this night. At last report, they were drinking ale and singing, quite merrily I'm told, but apparently quite badly. They are small in number, and from all appearances, a band of merchants who happened near our borders in their travels. I believe they have no knowledge of our presence, and it is obvious they are no trained warriors. I did not judge them a threat, but, if necessary, the perimeter guards could deal with them swiftly and effectively, be assured. Is there a problem I am unaware of?"

Is there a problem?_ ...much evil is to come..._ _much evil is to come..._ "Take a small party of your best fighters out to the borders of our realm and find Estel. Quickly! Make haste, I urge you, and bring my sons with you also, for I greatly fear you will have need of a healer before this night is through!"

**Comments and critiques are welcome and very much appreciated. I would love to hear what you think! **


	2. The Ways of Men

**Nothing in particular needs warning about in this chapter, but things are going to start getting pretty bad for poor Aragorn in the next. As always, all feedback, both positive comments and constructive criticism, is very much appreciated. This is a pivotal chapter. How are young Aragorn's actions here—in character, believable and reasonable given his current situation and life experiences, or not? I'd love to hear what you think! **

Where was he? Stopping abruptly, Aragorn finally ceased his rapid pace long enough to give his surroundings more than a passing glance. Though he knew he remained within the safety of his father's—no, Master Elrond's—woods, if he judged correctly he neared the very borders. What was the hour? Over the course of the day, the sky had grown increasingly overcast and grey, but still he could tell that dusk approached. He had been walking quickly, at times running full out, almost without pause since his words with Elrond that morning.

He had not meant to come so far. As he oft had done before, he sought from these familiar woods time alone to think, and that he most certainly found. But what answers came from his solace, what conclusions had he drawn? Though many memories and questions and understandings arose and passed through his troubled thoughts over these uncounted hours, one truth remained above all else. The time had come for him to depart Imladris, to bid farewell to his family and friends, to leave behind the only home he could remember knowing.

A firm decision, no matter how momentous, brings a certain sense of peace, and finally he was ready to rest. Suddenly, he felt most weary, and his stomach rumbled its emptiness. Aragorn sighed. In his haste to leave his father's chambers that morning, he had not prepared for an extended stay in the woods, and now he faced the prospect of a damp and unpleasant night. Without the gift of elvish sight, attempting to make his way home through the woods after dark was too unsafe. He had to set camp, such as it would be, and return to Imladris at dawn to begin making preparations for his departure and take proper leave of his family. His sword and dagger were at his side, of course, but little else. At least, in his flight, he had the sense to grab his cloak, which, with its dense but fine weave, would shelter him from the worst of the threatening rain.

Having taken his own duties on the perimeter guard the past few years, Aragorn knew well the movements of the patrols that watched these woods. On their sweep of the borders, they had passed by this way a short while ago and would not return for several hours yet. But, despite his hunger, in truth he did not mind this solitude, for he felt unready to face his elvish friends and brothers-in-arms so soon after being put soundly back into his place by Master Elrond that morning. As a mere Man, even one of his noble lineage, he was too far below Elrond's own daughter even to entertain notions of affection for her. Now, if he could only convince his own heart of that!

Angered by this useless self-pity, Aragorn shook his head firmly. Such thoughts were pointless! As soon as he was able, he would leave Imladris, and Arwen, behind, and seek his own fate in the world of Men. Still, no matter how far from her his travels might take him, he knew in his heart it would not change the truth that he could never love another.

He began to walk again, at a much slower pace this time, scanning the woods around him. If he recalled correctly, nearby a large, fallen tree rested upon some others, and he could take at least some partial shelter in the hollow under it. Though early autumn, some of the blackberries had already ripened on the bushes, and together with the edible plants to be found around here, he might gather enough for a rather meager meal. And, if he could collect some dry kindling before the inevitable rain began, he might even manage a small fire for warmth.

However, he had not walked far when a distant sound caught his ear—a music unlike any he had heard before, either from the minstrels of Imladris or from the Dúnedain songs his mother would sing for him. Far less melodious and harmonic than elvish music, there was yet something most appealing about it in its basic, almost jovial, simplicity, and Aragorn found himself drawn towards it. Cautiously, using all the skills at stealth taught to him by Elladan and Elrohir, he crept toward the sound. Soon, he spied in a clearing a large fire with a group gathered around it, and bringing himself closer to peer between the bushes, to his surprise, he saw not elves, as he had expected, but men.

Why were they here? Never before that he could recall had strange men come so close to the outskirts of Master Elrond's woods, and his first thought was to seek out the nearest patrol to warn them of this foreign presence. Just as he was about to creep back in the direction from which he had come, however, he stopped himself and stayed his ground. He knew the border guards had passed by this way not long ago, and they were, no doubt, well aware of this rather noisy group of men. If the patrol had not deemed these men a threat, then why should he?

In eighteen years at Imladris, all of the life he could remember, he had seen so very few men, and remaining concealed behind the bushes, he silently studied those before him with keen interest. They were a group of eight, and though he felt unable to accurately judge their ages, he guessed most of them to be about ten years his senior. One was much closer to his own age, even younger perhaps, and Aragorn noted with interest the patchy and rather sparse beginnings of a beard upon his face. All of the men had beards, and he brought his hand up to touch his own close shaven chin. A few years ago, when, much to his horror, his own beard had begun to grow, he had hidden in his room with a sharp knife and some soap and water and scrapped off the hairs as closely as he could to the skin. Unfortunately, no one had taught him the skill, and the outcome had not been pretty. Since then he had become quite adept at the art of shaving, and now he could keep his face almost as smooth as his elvish friends and family.

The one who held his interest most keenly, though, was the man who played the small stringed instrument that provided the music. He was old. Aragorn had spent almost the entirety of his life surrounded by beings who had walked upon Arda for thousands of years, and still they remained, forever, ageless. Lately, he began to notice with concern the little signs of age that wore upon his mother: the occasional, stray strands of silver that snuck into her dark hair, and the small lines that now traced her eyes and mouth. But this man's thinning hair and thick beard were completely white, and the wrinkles seemed etched into his skin like fissures in dry earth. Aside from paintings and illustrations in books, never before that he could remember had he seen someone so afflicted by time as the man who stood before him.

The old man played a lively tune that sounded so strange to Aragorn's ears, and the others joined in, raising their voices in merry, if discordant, song. Truly, they did not sing in any reasonable harmony that he could determine, and he could not help but smile a little at the thought of what effect their "music" would have on sensitive elvish hearing. On long winter evenings, the elves passed the time by singing in the hall of fire, and they often encouraged Aragorn to join in. Compared to the lyrical beauty of elvish voices raised in song, however, he was always acutely aware that he sounded like a croaking bullfrog, and when they complimented his singing, he knew they were only being kind.

These men sang in Westron, and Aragorn tried to make sense of the lyrics. Of course, he spoke the language fluently and, he thought, with very little accent, but he did not hear it spoken on a regular basis, and with the way these men were mashing and slurring their words, it took some effort to decipher their song. Suddenly, he felt his cheeks grow warm. The lyrics were most crude, something about a tavern wench and a part of the male anatomy. Certainly, he had never heard such bawdy songs sung in the Hall of Fire!

They all held large tankards, which they waved around quite freely as they sang, often sloshing over the rims a brown frothy liquid that Aragorn thought must be ale. He had been told men were very fond of this particular drink, but he had never before tasted it, as the elves of Imladris much preferred wine and fruit ciders. He noticed the cups were refilled frequently from a large barrel roped to the side of one of their wagons. There were two such wagons nearby, and two thick, sturdy, coarse-coated packhorses that looked so very different from the tall, sleek elvish steeds he was accustomed to.

For a time, Aragorn stood silently, observing the scene before him with rapt fascination. Who were these men? Why had they come to stop here? Were they traders, traveling merchants, selling their wares from one village to another? He thought he had studied all there was to know about Arnor and Gondor, and about the ways of his people, of their genealogy, and of their history. But how did he know so very little about the reality of men's lives?

Was he not, too, a man? Surely he must be, for he was most certainly no elf. Though he had been raised amongst elves, and knew their ways as his own, he had always been aware, at times painfully so, that he could never be like them no matter how hard he tried. Where then did he belong? The only father he had ever known, and loved, would be his father no longer. Still he felt the sting of his foster father's words, his father's rejection. _"She is too far above you."_ Not once, but twice, Elrond had made a point of calling him Arathorn's son.

Imladris, the only home he could remember and the home of his heart, was no longer his home. In his younger days, when his noble titles and grand destiny were concealed from him, and he dreamt about his future, as boys often do, he entertained the notion of remaining in Imladris for all of his years, ever content in his father's service. He had been a fool, and wrong about so very many things. Elrond had clearly spelled out his doom, either to rise above his forefathers or fall into darkness with his kin. Many years of trial lay before him, Elrond had said, and he would have to prove his worth.

What then should he do? Where could he go? To the Dúnedain? Would they even know him, the son of their long-dead chieftain, a distant memory, a myth? How would he seem to them, with his foreign appearance and his strange ways? Though he might change his clothes, and cut his hair and grow his beard, would it ever be enough? Would he one day again find kinship, or remain, forever, alone between two worlds?

Casting a glance over his shoulder in the direction he knew Imladris lay, he felt a profound ache in his heart. The woods behind him had never seemed so dark and sombre, so unfamiliar and unwelcoming. He shivered at the cold, and again his stomach rumbled its hunger. As he turned his gaze back toward the scene before him, he saw that the fire burned brightly, and he could smell the delicious aroma of roasting meat. As the men sang and drank, they seemed so very jovial and merry. Suddenly, he wished so dearly to know them.

Would it be unwise to reveal his presence to these men? Of course, he had learned that not all men are good, any study of history quickly revealed as much, and Elrond taught him well of the evil that could be wrought by men. But what of this small group? Obviously, the elvish patrol that passed this way not long before chose to leave them be, not deeming them a threat. And indeed, as Aragorn carefully assessed the merry, drunken men, they seemed little threat to him as well. They carried swords, of course, for attempting to travel in these dark days unarmed would be nothing but foolish. The swords, though, did not look well maintained, and these men so obviously were not trained warriors. He did not fear them. If it came to blows, he had no doubt he could defend himself quite readily against this motley bunch.

But why should it come to that anyway? These men appeared benign enough. Clearly they were simple traveling merchants, and truly they might have as much reason or more to distrust and fear him. How could he explain to them his strange appearance and his lack of company? Surely he could find a way to speak with them and put them at ease. No doubt they came across others in their travels. What would be the harm in spending some time in their company? Of sampling their ale, listening to their songs and hearing their tales? How could he ever fit into the world men, let alone lead them, if he did not understand them? One thing was quite apparent—he needed to know far more about the ways of men. Why could he not begin to learn right now? It seemed the perfect opportunity.

With one last fleeting glance at the dark emptiness behind him, he stepped out from the bushes and into the light, making his presence known. The music and the singing stopped abruptly as he spoke: "Greetings, fellow travelers! Might I share the warmth of your fire and your company for a time?"

**Hmm, what type of reception do you think these men will give Aragorn? Reviews please me very much and keep me motivated! **


	3. The Evil Men Do

**This chapter (and the previous one) has seen much revising, tweaking and polishing, and I've decided it's time to post. I realize that no matter how I write this, it will not please everyone, not when I'm placing as noble a character as Aragorn in such a horrible situation. Believe me, I want to do him justice, and depict him believably and in character, and most definitely not as stupid or foolish. But, as educated and trained as he is, the 20 year old Aragorn we see here has a lot more learning to do, and life to experience, before he can become the much older and wiser Aragorn we know from LoTR--the one who is ready to be King. And, as noble and honorable as he is, Aragorn is still human, and it is a fact that making mistakes is a fundamental part of the human condition. It is what we take from our mistakes, and what we learn, that can eventually make us stronger, wiser, and better people.**

**I'd like to thank the members of the LoTR writers groups—the LC and GoI, for all of their very useful feedback and suggestions.**

**Again, a warning: this story contains disturbing, adult content. There will be absolutely nothing graphic, but parts will be very dark. In this chapter specifically there is some adult language, and some may find the ending upsetting.**

With one last fleeting glance at the dark emptiness behind him, Aragorn stepped out from the bushes and into the light, making his presence known to the small group of traveling merchants, men, he had quite unexpectedly come across just outside the borders of Master Elrond's woods. "Greetings, fellow travelers! Might I share the warmth of your fire and your company for a time?"

The music and the singing stopped abruptly, and eight hands were instantly at the handles of eight swords as one of the men stepped forward slightly to study Aragorn with a menacing scowl. "Who 'er you?"

This rather unfriendly greeting came as no surprise to Aragorn. After all, he was to them a stranger who appeared suddenly and unexpectedly in the middle of the forest at night. Holding his own hands up in a placating gesture, he responded calmly: "Peace. I mean you no harm. I am merely a traveler, as you are, and I would like to share with you a tale or two and some ale if you are willing."

The man's brows furrowed even more deeply as he eyed Aragorn with suspicion, his hand still on his sword, and his coarse voice betrayed his skepticism as he questioned: "A traveler, eh? If yer a traveler, 'ere's yer pack?

Certainly a most reasonable question, thought Aragon, and his answer was not entirely a lie. "I had set up camp some distance away when I heard your merry music and sought out its source."

Taking another step closer, the man continued to frown, and Aragorn could feel his tension as he gripped the handle of his sword more tightly. "I ain't ne'r seen a traveler in such fancy garb 'afore."

"Yea!" a second, rather squeaky, voice piped up. "'E looks more like a prince than a traveler ta me! Look a that there clean and shiny cloak—it must be worth a pretty penny! An' the broach on 'is collar—I swears its silver! An' look a the handle of that sword. I ain't ne'r seen a sword as fine as that!" Aragorn noticed that the small man who now spoke had removed his own short and dull looking blade from its sheath, but still he remained a safe distance away, peering out cautiously from behind the other men.

"I've 'erd talk elves hide in these 'ere woods," another, quite large and scruffy, man said nervously. He shifted his eyes, warily searching the forest around him. "Is't an elf? Are there others?"

The small man spoke again, giving 'Scruffy' a sound swat on his arm. "Don't be daft, Bull! We all know that's just old wifes tales! Elveses are no more real than dwarfs or talkin' trees!"

Concealing his amusement behind a neutral expression, Aragorn kept his hands raised and far from his sword as he watched the exchange with interest. Clearly these were not the brightest nor most well-bred of men. Indeed, they seemed simple folk, and he could certainly understand why they might be so wary. Surely his appearance, with his smooth face, his fine clothes, and his grand way of speaking, was quite intimidating to them. Yet, he wished still to be able to talk with them and hear a little of their lives. If nothing else, it would make for an interesting evening, and he might just learn a useful thing or two about the ways of the common man as well. Giving them what he thought to be a reassuring smile, he tried again to put them more at ease: "I am no elf, I assure you. I am a man, just as you are."

"A man, eh?" 'Scowly,' the apparent leader of the group, questioned quickly. He continued to glare at Aragorn and clench the handle of his sword. "Then why do ya 'ave your hair so long an' fancy like? Ya look like a girl!"

"An' a right fine one, too!" Bull added, a most odd expression upon his face.

A round of laughter followed this comment, and little 'Squeaky' slapped Bull's arm again. "I think ya've been out in the wilds too long ya dumb brute! Ya've forgot what a girl looks like!"

Bull seemed decidedly frustrated as he responded: "Darn right! 'Ow longs it been since I last felt the soft, nice smellin' skin of a girl 'tween my legs? Just about anythin's starting to look good around now. 'Cept ya, of course, ya rat!" This time, it was Bull who gave the smaller man a sound swat on the side of his head before he continued: "But look at 'is shiny long hair, smooth, fair skin an fancy clothes--'e looks right fine, man or no!"

With this unexpected turn in the conversation, Aragorn's ire began to rise. How dare these base men speak of him in such a manner? Claiming he looked like a girl—the whole notion was preposterous!

Beyond annoyance, however, their words made him increasingly uncomfortable. What, exactly, were they implying and suggesting? He knew, of course, of the desires of the flesh. Years ago Elrond had told him about the physical union of a man and his wife that created a child. And he remembered all too well those most turbulent years as he began to change and grow from a boy into a man. His body seemed constantly at war with his mind, and at times, he was helpless to control the heat of the lust that would suddenly and frequently build up inside him. How very much alone he felt then! He never spoke of it to anyone, for he could not bring himself to discuss such a subject with his mother, and none of the male elves around him ever seemed afflicted by such base desires. Though no elf had ever said as much, Aragorn came to see these crude and lusty thoughts as a sign of weakness in the minds of men.

Now, at twenty, he took pride in the fact that he had largely overcome this mortal failing. Well, for the most part at least. However, these coarse men clearly had no such reservations or concerns, to speak of their desire for the flesh of a woman so freely. Sadly, he must have misjudged them. How would he ever be able to find any common ground with men so low? Trying to keep his anger in check, he responded softly with a slight tip of his head. "I apologize for my intrusion. It seems that my company is not wanted, and I will leave you now in peace."

As Aragorn began to back away slowly, the old man, who had until now remained silent, said: "Aye, lad. It's best if ya do."

"Wait a minute, Pa. Let's not be so rude, or so hasty." 'Scowly' spoke again, though he was no longer scowling, and finally he had released his grasp on the hilt of his sword. One arm now lay across his chest, and he had brought the other hand up to his chin as he seemed to regard Aragorn thoughtfully. "Ya do seem a right fine and noble fellow, an' I apologize that we din't give ya a more friendly greetin'. It's just that we're not used to runnin' into strangers in the woods, and ya surprised us is all. But, it'd be right improper of us not to share a meal with a fellow traveler. 'Specially if ye're all alone." 'Scowly' paused for a moment and glanced at the woods around him, as if trying to confirm the truth of this last statement. "Won't ya sit for a time an' have a cup of ale with us? A man of such high importance as ya seem is sure to 'ave an' interestin' tale or two to tell, an we'd be honoured ta have ya share our 'umble fire."

Aragorn stopped retreating, and for a moment he said nothing as he considered the man's words. He was no longer so keen to accept the invitation to join them. Though he had no doubt he could defend himself against these simple men with little trouble if need be, their crude comments had left him feeling decidedly unsettled. Truly they seemed a coarse and low bunch indeed, and, honestly, he was unsure if he could bear their company for long.

Suddenly, with a slight shake of his head, he silently chastised himself for his own arrogance. By what right did he judge them, anyway? In these dark times, he could most certainly understand their wariness towards a stranger, and he could not blame them, really, for their initial distrust and suspicion. Obviously, he knew little about the reality of men's lives, but this much he did know--they did not have the luxury of being raised and doted on by elves, of having their every need and desire met for them, and of living sheltered and in privilege. How could he ever hope to be, one day, a leader of men, as Master Elrond had charged, when he knew so very little about the common man? What harm could come from accepting their offer? Of sharing some tales and sampling their ale?

With a slight bow of his head, and a smile, Aragorn replied: "I would be pleased to stay for a time. I thank you for your hospitality."

The man smiled broadly in return, revealing a number of gaps between his crooked teeth, as he stepped forward and grasped Aragorn's hand in his own in what seemed to be a friendly gesture. "I'm Will."

As Will moved closer, Aragorn could not help but notice that he emitted a rather...strong...odor. Did all men smell so? Again, he shook his head slightly, chastising himself once more. Unlike him, these men did not have a ready supply of fine linens, perfumed oils, and warm baths drawn at their request. "Call me Strider," he responded with little hesitation. Where had that name come from? It seemed somehow appropriate, though, for as a child, he had often been teased by the elves for his constant haste.

"Strider, eh? Well, come Strider, sit for a while an' share a cup of ale with us." Will placed a firm hand on his back and guided him to sit on a log near the fire. Then Will walked over to the one Aragorn thought of as 'Squeaky' and told the smaller man to fetch a tankard for their guest. The two men exchanged a few more quiet words that Aragorn could not hear, and 'Squeaky' headed off toward the wagon, presumably to fetch a cup.

Turning his attention to the other men around him, Aragorn could not help but notice that the old man looked most displeased. He spoke to the youngest, whom Aragorn could now see was not yet near his twentieth year, and told him firmly: "Tom, find yer bedroll. Now!" Tom dutifully obeyed, walking out of sight behind the other wagon.

Will approached again, smiling broadly and shaking his head. "Pa, ye're always fussing so over that boy! Now, quit yer worrin' and play us another tune. Somethin' lively!"

For a moment, 'Pa' looked as if he might say something more as he hesitated, but then, with a slight nod, he picked up his instrument and started to play again. It was a merry tune, as requested, and 'Squeaky' approached, pushing a tankard into Aragorn's hands. "I thank you."

A slight smile was 'Squeaky's' only response as he returned to his spot by the fire.

Bringing the cup to his lips, Aragorn took a tiny sip of the ale, and quickly turned his head away to conceal his grimace. It tasted so very bitter! Did men actually enjoy this foul brew? Turning back, he forced a smile to his lips as he managed to choke out: "Delicious!"

Unfortunately, though, as he tried to discretely place the tankard on the ground beside him, Will raised his own cup and said merrily: "A toast to our guest, Strider! Drink up, ya all!"

Not wanting to offend his hosts, Aragorn steeled himself against the taste and took a large gulp of the bitter ale. He hoped that if he drank quickly he could better tolerate it, but still he could not completely stifle another grimace as he swallowed the contents down. A sudden dizziness came upon him. Elves drank some very strong wine, and over the years, he had grown accustomed to it. Surely this drink of men could not be so much more intoxicating?

The men still talked and laughed and sang, and the merry music still played. Nothing seemed amiss, but for the lightness in his head, and the bitterness in his mouth. What was that strange taste that lingered on his tongue? Something that did not belong in the drink? His hands suddenly felt weak, and the tankard fell to the ground with a dull thud. He tried to stand, but his legs were heavy, clumsy, and he could not seem to make them move as he wished. He too collapsed in the dirt.

Bull moved toward him and, smiling broadly, brought his face close as he asked: "Strider, are ya alright?"

Though he tried to respond, his tongue felt thick, and to his horror, he found he could not speak beyond a beastlike grunt. The men began to crowd around him. Why did they suddenly seem so...eager?

**Please leave a review. All comments--yes, negative ones too, so long as they are constructive--are very much encouraged and greatly appreciated. (And they make me happy!) Feedback from the first two chapters has definitely influenced the course of my writing in the next chapters.**


	4. Grief

**This chapter is warmly dedicated to two of my most faithful reviewers: Thorongirl and estelstheone. Their encouragement and support has been not only highly motivating and most appreciated, but perhaps even vital to ensuring the continuation of this dark and difficult but important story. Thanks so much guys!**

**As always, I greatly appreciate any comments or critiques any reader would care to leave me. I would love to hear what you think of this chapter.**

"Elladan," Glorfindel approached the makeshift healing tent, in fact little more than a tarp the twins had thrown hastily over some low branches to shield their patient from the elements. The night was growing colder, and rain threatened. Though the soothing scent of athelas permeated the air, it could not completely mask the stench of bile and blood and something even more sinister from Glorfindel's sensitive nose. "How fares Estel?"

Elladan stood abruptly and turned to him, bringing his face close. A wild look was in his eyes, one that Glorfindel had not seen there for centuries. "Finally he sleeps, due to the herbs, but we have done all we can for him here. We must get him home, to Father."

Glorfindel studied the young peredhel for a moment before replying. He was tense, wound taut, like a coil twisted to its very limit. He had managed so far to contain his rage, at least for the most part, but were he to remain much longer his tenuous restraint would not last. Best give him something to do, and remove from him the opportunity to take any more rash actions. "Then everything is in hand here. Ride ahead with haste to warn your father of what has happened and ready the needed healing supplies. Elrohir will follow with Estel. Also, inform Erestor of the need to prepare a suitable place to hold seven prisoners."

Elladan's right hand lingered dangerously on the hilt of his sheathed sword as he answered, his voice low: "I have a far better idea, Glorfindel. Why not let me make the 'preparations' and save us all the bother?"

"No," came Glorfindel's swift and unwavering response. "Already you have taken one life today. You will take no more."

Bringing his face closer, Elladan's eyes narrowed slightly in challenge: "Was it not you, my Lord, who gave the signal to shoot?"

Keeping his eyes fixed on Elladan's, Glorfindel answered firmly: "To shoot, yes, not to kill."

With a quick glance to the side, and slight shrug of his shoulders, Elladan replied, the distain clear in his voice: "It was an accident."

"An accident? I have not seen your aim stray so far from the mark since you were but a youth of sixty years! You were to graze his leg, and yet your arrow pierced his chest straight through the heart, killing him instantly."

"From the injuries I have seen on Estel with mine own eyes, I only regret that errant arrow did not strike a point somewhere in between! Death came with far too much mercy for that perverted piece of filth! It was a little beast that will be little missed or mourned!" Visibly shaking with rage, Elladan turned in the direction where he knew the rest of the men were being held. "Nor would any of those others."

Grabbing him forcefully by the shoulders, Glorfindel brought Elladan back to face him. "That is not your decision to make, young one. Need I remind you, we speak of men, not orcs?" Beneath his steady and controlled tone, there was a hint of warning.

The fire of defiance flared again in Elladan's eyes. His grip tightened on his sword. "These are no men! Only orcs could be capable of such vile acts of..."

"Elladan! Would you slaughter bound and disarmed men?"

"Why should I not? The crimes they have committed against Estel are far more heinous! Their right to draw breath is forfeit!"

"Estel lives, and though I fear his recovery may be long and difficult, he will, eventually, recover." An image came unbidden to Glorfindel's mind of Estel's state when first they reached him, far too late, and even the seasoned warrior of many battles could not wholly stifle a shudder. He took a deep breath before he continued, though a slight tremor remained in his voice: "Do you not know I share in equal measure your anger and your pain? But, no matter how much we may wish to, still we can not take the role of assassin in the dark in the middle of your father's own woods. We must bring them back for your father to decide their fate and see justice done in the light of day."

Placing a firm hand on Elladan's cheek, Glorfindel turned his face to better see into his eyes. "Elrondion, I urge you, do not risk that perilous road of revenge again! These scum are not worth the toll you would pay."

For a long tense moment, neither moved nor spoke. Glorfindel searched the other's face, looking for any sign of concession, any sign that his stubborn charge would see reason and relent. Then--there it was--a slight flicker in the flame that burned behind Elladan's eyes. He would seek no more blood this day. Releasing a shaky breath, Elladan bowed his head slightly, and Glorfindel closed his eyes in a brief prayer of thanks to the Valar before he spoke again: "Let us keep our thoughts now on Estel and his care. Will you ride ahead to ensure that all is prepared for our return?"

A slight tip of his head was the only response as Elladan turned abruptly and strode to his awaiting stallion. With a swift and effortless leap, he mounted the steed, setting off at a pace far too brisk for a path through the woods in the dark of night as the rain began to fall.

The hoof beats of Elladan's galloping stallion echoed in Glorfindel's ears long after he had disappeared from sight. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he turned back toward the healing tent, preparing himself to face an entirely different kind of grief.

Elrohir had adjusted the tarp as best he could to shelter his patient from the rain, and now he knelt protectively over his sleeping charge. He was singing, softly, and Glorfindel paused for a moment simply to listen. To his surprise, he realized he did not recognize the tune. It sounded, perhaps, like a Dúnedain song, one they might sing to comfort their wounded and their dying.

Though the hot logs sputtered and hissed in response to the small drops of water that assailed them, still the fire, built to warm Estel and boil the healing herbs, burned brightly. The light of the flickering flames danced on the tarp, casting those huddled beneath in an almost ethereal glow. Glorfindel watched as Elrohir reached out tenderly to bush a stray lock of Estel's dark unruly hair behind a rounded ear, never ceasing his haunting melody. Elrohir's shoulders were slumped, and he looked so very weary. He seemed, almost, to have aged.

The scene before him chilled Glorfindel to his very bones.

Elrohir's voice faltered, and the last notes died on his lips. For a moment he sat in silence, unmoving, his eyes never leaving Estel's face. Then, without turning, he spoke: "The days grow dark indeed, Glorfindel. Though oft my father has forewarned of the spreading of the Shadow, and many times I have witnessed great evil, I was not prepared for this. Is there naught left on Arda worth fighting for? Does no valour, no honour, remain amongst Men?"

Glorfindel stepped forward, and sat down beneath the tarp, studying Elrohir's profile with concern. "It is unlike you to lose hope. You know this is not true! What of Aragorn's own people?

"For many centuries I have watched them dwindle, and die. Now they are so few in number. It is not enough!" Elrohir turned to look directly at him, and Glorfindel could see the depth of his despair. "Gilraen once told me, not long ago, that she has not the strength left within her to face the darkness yet to come. How will she cope when we return her son in such a state? How will any of us?"

"We will cope as we have always coped in the face of tragedy," Glorfindel's response was swift and sure. "We will take what comes with each new day, and in those times when it seems as though we can not endure until we see the next sun rise, we will take each moment as it comes." Glorfindel paused for a minute, well aware that he had said nothing specifically of Gilraen. In truth, he feared she might not fare too well. With a soft sigh, he continued, offering Elrohir what reassurance he could: "Estel is young and strong. Given time to heal, and with our care, he will grow stronger still. You will see."

Elrohir looked away without responding; and taking a cloth soaked in cool athelas water, he began to lightly wipe Estel's brow. Due largely, no doubt, to the aid of a draught, the young man slept, but he did not rest peacefully. By the flush of his face, Glorfindel could see that he was feverish.

"Elladan has ridden ahead to ensure that all is prepared for our arrival home. Dawn will break soon, and then you will take Estel, though at a slower pace than that set by your brother, I hope. The guards and I will follow with the prisoners on foot. We are already at the borders of your father's realm. Your path should be safe enough without an escort."

Suddenly, the cloth was thrown down in disgust, and a rare flash of anger crossed Elrohir's face. "Estel should have been safe enough here! This never should have happened!"

"The perimeter guards were well aware of the presence of these vagabond men just beyond the boundary of your father's woods!" Glorfindel could feel his hands clench into fists, and he bowed his head to look down at Estel as he continued far more quietly: "_I_ told them not to act. I told them to watch the men's movements and report back to me. As long as they did not set foot within the borders of Imladris, I did not deem them a threat."

"That was where you were wrong!" Elrohir's reply was quick and heated. "And now Estel must pay the price!"

For a moment, Glorfindel did not respond as he reflected on his own actions. With the information he had then, could he have acted differently? To his knowledge, these men had committed no crime; they had not, yet, even trespassed. Taking a deep breath, he resolved that he would not allow himself to fall into the pit of guilt and doubt. What was done, was done, and indulging in self-blame would benefit no one. Turning back to look at Elrohir, he answered calmly: "What I could not know was that Estel would most unexpectedly happen across their path."

As quickly as it had come, the anger in Elrohir's countenance was replaced again with profound sorrow. Taking a fresh cloth, he continued to tend Estel as he questioned with a weary sigh: "Why _was_ he here? What brought him out to these woods alone at dusk?"

"I do not know," Glorfindel answered, perhaps a little too quickly. Though not entirely the truth, his words were not a lie either. He thought it none of his business to reveal that earlier in the day, Elrond had summoned Estel to his chamber. Glorfindel did not know the reason for this conference, and he refused to engage in idle speculation and the spreading of rumour. He would leave it to Elrond to share, if he wished, the words that had passed between them.

Elrohir cast him a quick glance, as if unconvinced, before turning back to his work again.

As the first rays of the morning sun began to peek over the distant mountains, Glorfindel stood and placed a hand on Elrohir's shoulder. "I go to speak to the guards and check on the prisoners. Be prepared to leave with Estel within the hour. The sooner we get him home, the better it will be for him."

He paused for a moment to cast one last look at the sleeping boy. No, he reminded himself, Estel—Aragorn—was a boy no longer. He was a man now, and too soon he would have to learn to make his own way in a world of men. Had they failed him? They all had tried their best to prepare him for the trials he would face, of course, but had he been too sheltered, was he too trusting? Frowning, Glorfindel shook his head. Of course Estel would trust no longer. His first challenge alone had been a terrible ordeal, and the next days and weeks and months would be most difficult, for all of them. As Glorfindel turned to leave, with a sigh, he added softly: "Then he can begin to heal."

**The next chapter is the last one that has already been written, and over the next few months I expect that my writing time will be quite limited. However, reviews are always very encouraging and highly motivating! I would love to hear what you think.**


	5. Despair

**Some of you have read parts of this already when I posted it amid a bit of controversy on a couple of boards last fall. Since then, I've revised the chapter a fair amount and added over four hundred words of new text. Please take the time to review—I would very much like to hear what you think.**

**A very heartfelt thanks to the great writers of the LC for serving as my beta readers on this story, and a special thanks to gwynnyd for all of her useful advice and suggestions.**

**Again, a strong warning that this deals with very dark, mature subject matter. Some may find this chapter to be disturbing. **

"Estel?"

_Faces swirled around him in the haze. Dirty, ugly faces that came too close and, with foul, stinking breath, spoke too coarsely. "Wake up, boy! Don't think yer gonna get out of this so easy! I won't 'ave ya sleepin' through this!" _

"Do you wake?"

This voice, though, was not harsh and malicious, but lyrical and kind, and, despite his fear of what he might see, Aragorn reluctantly willed his eyes to open. Blinking against the dim light, which still to him seemed too bright, he briefly strained to bring his vision into focus. When he saw clearly who stood above him, he was filled with a sense of relief, and for a moment, he almost smiled. "Father," he said as he started to push himself up, only to be stopped abruptly with a gasp at the painful pull of wounds he did not expect.

Elrond's hand came immediately to his shoulder, gently preventing him from further movement. "Rest there, Estel, and be still. Your body needs time to heal."

Aragorn noticed now he was not his chambers, but a healing room, and he obediently slumped back against the pile of pillows that supported him. In truth, his pain was too great to do anything else. The sheer drapes had been drawn to filter the daylight. "Why am I here?"

"You do not remember, son?" His father's voice sounded so sombre.

With a sigh, Aragorn turned his head to face the opposite wall. His recent memories were hazy and vague, and, though he sensed this was likely for the best, still his mind struggled to fill in the blanks. How had he ended up in the healing ward in such pain? He could recall that he had been in the forest. But why? _"She is too far above you."_ Elrond's blunt words to him came back with clarity, and he frowned. But there was more. What did he find in the woods? Men. There were men!

A dull pain throbbed in his arms, which lay outside the blankets, and Aragorn glanced down at his hands. Why were his wrists bandaged? He strained to remember. That strange bitter taste in his ale!_ His arms and legs failed him and he fell to the ground, as helpless and weak as an old rag doll. Those vile men crowded around and Will spoke: "Tie 'is hands behind 'is back with this 'ere rope. An' make it tight! We don' want im gettin' loose on us!" _His ribs ached too and he could feel the pressure of a bandage wrapped firmly around his chest as well._ A muddy old boot landed soundly on his side and he heard a crack. Instinctively, he curled into a ball to try to protect himself from further pain. "I said wake up boy! I want ya to feel this!"_ The bed seemed to sway as a dizziness overtook him and his breath came in shallow gasps. _Rough hands grabbed him, forcing him onto his stomach, and a knee on his neck pushed his face into the ground. As he fought for breath, the coppery taste of his own blood mixed with dirt in his mouth..._

Closing his eyes, he shook his head vigorously, but still he could not stop the sudden flood of memories as missing fragments fell into place, and his body began to shake against his will. A hand came to rest lightly on his brow, and he pulled away quickly from the touch, withdrawing as if in pain. His eyes shot open in terror and, to his shame, he saw Elrond standing above him, his hand hovering in the air where but a moment before Aragorn's head had rested. As Elrond slowly lowered his arm again, Aragorn thought that he had never seen his father look so sad. "Are you cold, son? Is there anything you need?"

"There is naught you can do for me," came Aragorn's quick response. Harsh perhaps, but true: he was beyond anyone's aid now. He shut his eyes again, for he did not want to see, he did not want to think, he did not want to remember. Still, he felt the comforting weight of another blanket placed upon him, and though there was silence for a time, he knew that Elrond remained close by. Why was he still here? Why did he hover so? Why would he not just leave him be?

"Estel," Elrond said quietly, "your mother waits outside. She wishes to see you."

Squeezing his eyes closed tightly, he resisted the tears that threatened to fall. She would see, she would know. He could never bear to face her! He could not bear the shame! "No! Send her away."

"She is worried about you. She needs to see you."

Aragorn's eyes snapped open and he turned to look at Elrond again. The one who had always called him 'son' looked down on him now with weary eyes that seemed so very full of care. But was it merely the concern of a healer for his patient? How could it be anything other, when Aragorn had utterly failed them all? Trying to wrap the shreds of his dignity around him, he struggled to maintain his composure, but again he failed, and he could not stop his voice from rising in anger. "I will not see her! Do you not understand? I cannot! Now leave me be!"

With a small shake of his head, Elrond did not move as he responded quietly: "I fear it is unwise to leave you alone now, son."

"I am not your son!" What had Elrond said to him about his own daughter? _"...she is of a lineage greater than yours..."_

Elrond bowed his head briefly, and drew in a breath. When he looked up again, his face bore a kind yet firm expression. "Aragorn, listen to me! I know you grieve and suffer greatly, but I tell you truly, those who love you grieve and suffer too with you. Grief is a wound that no one can heal on their own. I have seen the damage that is wreaked when grief is denied, or pushed aside, and left alone to fester. I have seen how grief will consume a body from within till naught is left but a thin and hollow shell. Do not turn away those who seek to help you, those who love you."

Love him? How could anyone love him now? _"Many years of trial lie before you,"_ his own father—no Master Elrond—had told him. Well, already he had been put to the test, and already he had failed. He did not want to remember, but as much as he tried to resist, he could not stop his traitorous mind from pulling out images from the haze. _Coarse laughter and crude words, foul breath and rough hands, pain and humiliation, cold air on bare skin..._ He shook his head sharply in a vain attempt to stop the flood of his thoughts. _"A great doom awaits you,"_ Elrond had said, _"either to rise above the height of all you fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin."_ Not only had he, Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Lord of the Dúnedain, fallen, but by common men been brought lower than a dog in the dirt.

He looked at Elrond again, and he spoke quietly, and with apparent calm, but the icy coldness of his voice surprised even himself: "Leave. Now." Hardly the proper way to speak to the master in the master's own house, but he was far past propriety. "And shut the door."

For a moment, Elrond stood completely still, and to Aragorn, he had never before looked so uncertain. Finally, Elrond conceded with a slight tip of his head, and when he answered, he bore an expression of pure sorrow. "As you wish."

With that, he turned and walked out the door, closing it firmly behind him. The room was silent and still, and Aragorn was left with naught but his pain and his memories. His father had abandoned him to his grief. But Master Elrond was not his father, and how could Aragorn fault him for doing as he had bid and leaving? Was Aragorn not the one who had failed them all? _Brought lower than a dog in the dirt..._

Biting down hard on his lip to stifle the sob that threatened to escape, he closed his eyes and tried again to will the horrible images away with deep, even breaths. Immediately, though, his efforts were hindered by the strip of linen wrapped tightly around his chest and the pain in his ribs. It was but one of the constant aches that served ever to remind him of his failure and his shame. How could he possibly endure this? How would he survive? Did he even wish to?

The soothing scent of athelas filled the air, and the sheets smelled of lavender. His wounds had been tended and wrapped in soft, fresh bandages, his body scrubbed and clothed in a crisp new nightshirt. And yet, despite every outward appearance of cleanliness and order, never before had he felt so unclean, so out of control. Releasing a shallow, shaky breath, he grasped desperately at the fine linens beneath him as his hands clenched into fists, and there, in the safety of his solitude, he wailed out his grief to an empty room.

**That is the end of what I have already written, and I don't know when I'll be able to get the next chapter out. The summer is a pretty busy time. But, I can tell you that reviews do please me, and inspire me, and motivate me to keep writing. Praise, critique, discussion, debate—I don't mind, as long as I know readers are still interested.**


	6. In the Darkest Hours

**Yep, I am still around! There's been some difficult months, but I finally have a new chapter to add to this story, and I fully intend to keep working on this tale until it is finished.**

**I want to mention that I can't recommend highly enough the non-profit, fan made film "Born of Hope" which tells the story of Aragorn's parents, Arathorn and Gilraen (just Google it and you'll find it easily enough). It is most certainly worth watching, and, as bonus, the sons of Elrond are in it! ****It certainly inspired me to start writing again.**

**This chapter is very dialogue heavy, but there is a lot going on—it builds on much of what I have written before and weaves in threads from many of my past stories, from "A Yearling Shoot" to "Day and Night" and "To Give Hope" and all the way back to "Touch." Finally, the twins start to open up to each other a bit, but obviously there is still a lot left to be resolved between them.**

**As always, I would very much like to hear what you think of this chapter—comments or critiques, what you liked or didn't, if you're still enjoying this and want to read more—anything really, it's just nice to know that people are reading.**

"Mother? Mother!"

Elrohir heard the words, but knew not if he spoke them. Why was she here, now, in this place? She should be safe and far from this evil! But she was not. He had to protect her! Why then could he not move? Would he but stand by and watch helplessly?

With rising dread he realized that somehow he had fallen into sleep, and on this dark night, he did not wander at will through the peaceful path of elven dreams. Nay, he had been ensnared, caught in the thrall of a nightmare. Only in times of the deepest grief, when the strength of his body and mind was totally spent and absolute despair threatened to take him, did pure exhaustion pull him unwillingly into this state of slavery, this living death that was the sleep of Men. He always wondered at the way Men seemed more than resigned to endure their nightly affliction; indeed, they appeared at times to welcome, relish it, even. It was the one trait of his mortal inheritance he would quite willingly forgo if he were able. To him such sleep brought naught but horror. No peace could ever be found there again, not since…

No! He would not be dragged once more into this pit of utter evil! In desperation, he fought to regain control of his mind, to will his body to respond to his commands, to open his eyes and move his arms. As the veil of sleep began to lift and his senses returned to him, he became aware of the presence of another in his room. With a gasp, he instantly sat bolt upright in his bed, fully alert and searching for the intruder.

Upon seeing the silent and unmoving figure that stood at the open balcony doors, Elrohir released the breath he held with a sigh. "Elladan! What are you doing out there?"

His brother did not turn to face him, and his response was flat and devoid of emotion: "I could sense your distress from my room."

Clutching his head as if to dispel the horrific images that loomed there still, Elrohir responded quietly: "I dreamt of mother."

"I can not sleep," said the unmoving figure dully.

Concerned, Elrohir looked up to better study his brother. A foul wind blew fierce and cold through the open doors, and rain fell in torrents, assailing Elladan as he stood unwavering in the full force of the storm. Thoroughly soaked, his thin nightshirt clung to his chest like a translucent second skin, and his hair, wet and disheveled, stuck to his cheeks as water ran in steady streams down his face. He seemed not to notice as he stared blankly into the dark beyond the balcony.

"You are drenched! Come in here!"

A slight shake of his head was the only answer at first, but after a pause Elladan spoke, his voice emotionless and distant: "I like the rain. It feels...clean."

Usually so hot and quick with his temper, Elladan now seemed nothing but numb, empty almost, and Elrohir felt a profound chill that had nothing to do with the weather. He had seen his twin in such a state once before, and he had no desire to return again to the long and dreadful days that had followed. Did Elladan withdraw once more into that dark place where he had retreated after they had found their mother, defiled, disfigured, broken at the hands of those most vile servants of the Enemy? That place in his mind where an unseen yet grievous wound, inflicted by all the unspoken horrors he had witnessed and borne in his many long years, lurked, untreated and festering, until the time it might release its poison again? His brother stood on the brink, and Elrohir knew, despite the distance that had grown between them, he must find a way to reach him before it was too late.

Rising from his bed, he approached slowly, and as he put a hand on Elladan's arm he had to resist pulling away, for it felt as though all heat was drained from his brother's body. Elladan said nothing as Elrohir wrapped him in a thick, warm blanket, and with a gentle but sturdy grasp on his shoulders guided him to sit in a nearby armchair. Closing the doors firmly on the wind and rain, Elrohir came to kneel before his twin, taking ice cold hands in his own and searching eyes that seemed so frighteningly empty. "Elladan, please, speak to me."

"And what shall I tell you? In the face of all that has occurred, what use are words?"

"I beg you, brother, do not turn from me in sorrow and despair again! We both grieve. Can we not share our grief together? I know you are haunted as I am by horrors we can not escape, horrors forced upon us by our own traitorous minds. We are helpless to stop these foul memories, as vivid as if we relived them again--horrific images of what we saw… of Estel's unnatural torment at the hands of those abhorrent men... we were too late, far too late… of how we rushed to his aid, only to have him scream and struggle at our most gentle touch… of the sickening stench of unwashed bodies and other vile things that befouled him…"

With a shudder of revulsion, Elrohir paused at the painful clench in his heart. Bowing his head, he took a deep breath before he continued: "And with them, these thoughts drag forth other horrific memories we sought long ago to bury in the darkest corners of our minds. Memories of mother…"

"Do not speak of her!" Elladan pulled his hands away and stood abruptly, heading quickly to the door.

Pure terror of what might come if he were to allow his brother to leave drove Elrohir to grab Elladan forcefully by the arms to prevent his escape, and his voice raised to a shout: "We have _never_ spoken of her! Not once since she left us."

A heavy silence hung between them, but Elrohir did not release his grip, and Elladan did not move. Taking another deep breath to steady himself, Elrohir spoke again, much more softly now, his eyes searching his brother's face. "Do you remember when we were young? When the world seemed so bright and full of promise? When life lay open and welcoming before us, and we greeted each new day with excitement and thoughts of adventure?"

With a slight smile at the recollection of those innocent times long gone, he continued: "We never would be parted then, not in body, heart nor mind. We were not the same, of course. No, for even then we never did see things quite in the same way, did we? But we were the two vital halves of a whole, each offering our own strengths and tempering the other's weaknesses. We had no secrets between us, nothing left long unspoken that should have been said, and, together, we felt complete and strong."

Pulling free of Elrohir's hold, Elladan responded with a bitter laugh. "In the foolishness of youth, we thought there was no battle we could not win, no enemy we could not defeat, so long as we were united. We were wrong."

"The world is much changed, and so too are we," said Elrohir sadly and, suddenly needing to avert his gaze, he looked to the floor as he spoke again. "Over these last few months, I have come realize that a distance has been growing between us for many long years. It began in that vile cave with mother. It widened when she left us. I wanted to cry. I wanted to grieve. But you did not. You sought only vengeance…"

Elladan's response was quick and heated: "Are you trying to claim that you did not join me in the quest, that you too did not seek out relentlessly the blood of our enemies in payment for their heinous crimes?"

Looking straight into his brother's eyes once more, Elrohir answered firmly: "I did, of course! You know that even in the darkest hours I remained ever at your side."

After a moment's pause, Elrohir continued earnestly, willing Elladan to understand: "But, no matter how many orcs I slew, it brought no relief to the aching grief in my heart, and I soon came to realize that no act of revenge, no amount of blood spilled, could ever undo what had been done. I tired of the hunt and wished to go home, to grieve with my family for what had been lost. But you would not relent, you would not rest, you would not grieve. You could not ever even bring yourself to speak of mother, nor would you listen. You were empty, driven wholly by your need to kill, and in those darkest of days, when to you your own life had ceased to matter, I stayed by your side to watch over you."

"You need never have stayed if you did not wish to! I did not need you."

Elladan turned back toward the door, and Elrohir again stopped him with a firm grasp on his arm. "Once more, Elladan, you try to push me away. Why? In these past months, since your grievous injuries in the cave-in, I have sensed that something else has changed between us. You close yourself ever more to me, and further and further you seem to withdraw."

There was no response. Elladan kept his eyes fixed on the door, and Elrohir could not prevent the pleading, almost desperate, tone that now entered his voice: "I miss you, my brother, my twin. Why will you not open your mind and your heart to me again?"

Turning quickly to face him, Elladan answered with a shout: "Do you make me say it? I am afraid!" Breathing heavily, he bowed his head and averted his gaze, and for a time said nothing more. When next he spoke, it was little more than a whisper. "You would not like what you saw."

Elrohir replied without hesitation. "No matter the distance between us, no matter what secrets you may keep that you think too dark to share with me, you are my brother still, and I know you. I know what I would see." Cupping a hand under Elladan's chin, Elrohir lifted his brother's head to look him directly in the eyes. "Above all I would see steadfast loyalty and devotion to family and those worthy of friendship, true honour and valour, unfailing self-sacrifice for the greater good, remarkable bravery and courage, and a strength I can only admire."

"You flatter me, brother," said Elladan bitterly as he twisted his head out of Elrohir's grasp. "For if you were to look truly, what you would see is the enormity of my failure and my shame."

"Your failure is no greater than mine, Elladan! If you are to blame for all that has happened then so too am I!" Elrohir continued with a sigh: "How many times have I told you not to bear the burdens of all Arda upon your shoulders? Many things are not in your power to control, or to change."

"You do not understand!" Elladan responded hotly. "I _knew_ some evil would soon befall Estel. Again my cursed foresight tormented me with a piece of a puzzle I did not know how to solve. I tried to prepare Estel for whatever he might face, and in battle one on one with him I put him to the test. But I did not think to prepare him for treachery and depravity such as this from his own kind. That is my failure."

"That is not your failure alone. The Dúnedain are a noble race, but even in passing, we have spent enough time in the villages of lesser men to know, sadly, of their perversions. Perhaps I tried too hard to instill in Estel a sense of pride in his kinsmen at the expense of warning him strongly enough about the extent to which men are also capable of dishonour, lust, and lechery. It is not easy to speak of, and, honestly, I never once thought such a fate as this would befall him." Feeling sorrow and guilt threaten to overtake him too, Elrohir paused for a minute to collect his thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he continued with new resolve: "But bearing such guilt is not healthy, nor is it useful. We must centre our efforts on what we can do to help Estel. You need to stop looking always behind you, and start looking ahead, Elladan."

"But what is there to look to now that hope is truly and utterly gone?" Elladan shook his head and closed his eyes. "You ask what happened in that cave-in, how it is that I have changed. I will tell you this—in those dark hours, when Estel and I were trapped in dire conditions, I had a momentous vision. I saw Aragorn crowned and the great kingdoms of Men restored, and for a time, I dared allow myself to hope again."

Elladan looked back at him and Elrohir could see the raw grief in his eyes when he next spoke: "But I should never have allowed it, for my hope is destroyed once more! Long ago I swore an oath to Estel's mother that I would not allow her son to fall. I failed. Estel is broken and all hope is gone!"

This time, it was Elrohir who felt a flash of anger course through him as he shouted: "Estel is not broken! Do you still so little know our _brother_, Elladan?"

For a while he let the silence hang between them. Then, Elrohir spoke once more, and his reply was unwavering and without doubt. "Estel is stronger than you seem to believe. He will not die, he will not fade. He lives still and in time, with help, not only will he heal from this, he will grow stronger and wiser for it. Mark my words, for you will see, and I hope you too will learn."

**In the next chapter: a long needed conversation between Elrond and Gilraen, and in the chapter after we will hear from Aragorn again (although I'll warn you, he's not doing too well at the moment). **

**Please leave a comment—I'd love to hear from you, and reviews make me happy!**


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